


Fisherman's Friend

by milesawayfromthevoid



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Armageddon, Brief Tracy Cameo, Crowley's Professional Appreciation of Loopholes, Ily Tracy But This Is A Fast One, Kissing in the Rain, Merging Book Canon With TV Canon, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Rain, signs of the apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-06 20:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20512751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milesawayfromthevoid/pseuds/milesawayfromthevoid
Summary: Crowley is on his way to Tadfield, and nothing is going to slow him down. Not a ring of Hellfire, not his Bentleyonfire, and certainly not whatever weird phenomena the Apocalypse is going to throw at him next.AKA: One time that Crowley and Aziraphale get caught in the rain apart, and one time that they get caught in the rain together.





	Fisherman's Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Another one for Ineffable Husbands Week! This time, I sorta merged "downpour, rain, storm" into one. Kinda. You'll see. Thanks for the prompt!

The end of the world was steadily approaching. 

Crowley was in a car that was on fire, _ but it's fine, really it is, it's absolutely functional, it will get him to his destination, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. _

He was speeding towards a tiny, insignificant village in the middle-of-nowhere. (If a certain tween Antichrist heard him at that moment, Crowley would be suffering in ways that only a tween human could come up with. Thankfully, though only for Crowley, he was busy keeping his friends hostage.) He knew what he had to do, or what Aziraphale had to do, when he got there. There were, what? Seven, eight billion lives on the opposite side of the scale? It should be an easy choice.

He still didn’t want to think about it. 

There was something good in all this, though. Aziraphale was alive.

_ Aziraphale _ is _ alive_.

The fire was just the product of some mortal weapon, or a mortal tool, or a Mortal Tool; and the clever, clever angel was out somewhere looking for a body to possess.

It wouldn't do to wonder what it would be like if he possessed the demon’s _ own _ corporation. Nah, it probably would've been messy even if they did somehow survive it, and the end of the world really is no time to experiment. At least, it isn’t if you’re the only two people who, despite all logic pointing to the contrary, are able to prevent it. 

That very sound reason, unfortunately, did not settle his tapping fingers. He had to trust Aziraphale, but he already almost lost him once today. Twice, if you're counting emotional loss. As he left the bar and made drove to the motorway, Crowley realized that he would've felt much, much better about this whole venture if Aziraphale was in the car with him. 

That is, up until he saw the M25 exploded into a ring of fire. _ That _ changed his mind very quickly. 

Judging by how he misjudged a simple earthen blaze for Hellfire back at the bookshop (devastating in its own way, but not in the way that would entirely rip out Crowley's soul and flay what's left of it), he wasn’t in his right mind to make the call on what was and wasn’t Hellfire right now. As such, he wasn't too sure this route would be safe for the angel. 

_ Aziraphale can handle himself. This is the best plan _ , he kept thinking. That is, in between thinking, _ this car is fine so help me Satan, this car will work, a thousand degrees is a perfectly normal temperature this time of year. _

His thoughts were interrupted by a thud on his roof. Then another. Crowley had a brief moment of hoping that it wasn't massive hail, as summoning up another miracle would be rather difficult given his current level of concentration, before a large-mouth bass flopped onto his windshield.

He put the windshield wipers on automatically before his brain processed that a _ large-mouth bass landed on his car from the sky_.

Soon enough, it was as though Heaven was upturning a million fish markets onto London. The few cars that were still on the road, mostly abandoned, were being pummelled by them. A reporter and a cameraman were huddled in their van, staring in slack-jawed awe at the storm before them. Peripherally, Crowley noticed them swing the camera his way as he sped past, but he didn't much care. 

The Bentley was holding well: it couldn't miss the rain of seafood, even with the speed and reflexes that Crowley was using, but he added _ the fish aren't hitting my car at terminal velocity, it's fine; _ what _ fish, actually? _to his inner chant. 

Crowley was by no means an expert on fish, but he did notice that some of them looked distinctly tropical, and even more looked like deep-sea fish. A moray eel got tangled on the ornament, and a stoplight loose-jaw (which he only recognized due to the sheet amount of bragging that Beelzebub did about its creation) had gotten caught on one of the side-mirrors, in such a way that was too morbid to look at. Luckily, Crowley didn't care much for his mirrors, anyway. 

Thankfully, the leftover fire was doing wonders at keeping the fish from gumming up his tires. Unfortunately, the fire _ also _ did wonders at creating the terrible smell of scorched seafood. Crowley had hoped never to experience that smell again, not after that ridiculously daft chef in a restaurant back in Ravenna overdid his scampi. 

Despite everything, though, he could feel a laugh build up in his chest and escape through his clenched teeth. It was somewhere between hysterical and triumphant, and it was loud and high. It was the sort of laugh one gives when they're backed into a corner, or desperately holding something up to prevent it from crushing them, and all their stress manifests in semi-hysterical giggles. Of all the things to happen to him today, this might as well join in. At least this was _ funny_. He had spent all this time thinking that rain of fish thing was utter bullshit, something a prophet would add in in order to fill the page, but no! It was true, and Crowley was caught in the thick of it. 

He ended up doubled over the wheel and wheezing, and he grateful for it. He hadn't laughed this hard in _ weeks _, and he never realized how sorely he needed it until now. 

Eventually, though, every downpour must come to an end, and Crowley's sheer speed got him out of it even faster. A few minnows slapped ineffectual against the hood of the Bentley, but even those petered out quickly enough. The mirth in him stayed, even as he passed into the threshold of Tadfield, where the sun was setting too serenely to be the epicenter of the end of the world.

When he finally caught up to Aziraphale, and the two of them stole the military equivalent of a golf cart (and here Crowley had to stamp down a bit of lingering mourning), Aziraphale finally seemed to catch up with the situation.

“Crowley, did you happen to see a downpour of fish?”

“Okay, so you saw it too, right?”

“_Saw it?_ I was flying _ through _ it! I had to create a blanket miracle from London to the outskirts of Oxfordshire in order to not get struck down! I had no idea there were so many types of fish!” 

“Me neither! It was very informative! I’m afraid Mr. S was too busy clinging to me to entire time to notice, though,” Madame Tracy (as she had introduced herself earlier) chimed in. She patted Mr. Shadwell’s hand consolingly. 

“Well, most of the ocean’s undiscovered, still,” Crowley offered to both of them. 

“Yes, but we helped _ create _ it.” Aziraphale again. “I feel as though we should have remembered some.”

“Point taken,” he granted. Suddenly, they rounded a corner, and their brief moment of levity was ended at the sight of the Antichrist. Like a sudden, unrelenting rain the moment you step outside. 

“Right,” Aziraphale said, squaring his borrowed shoulders. 

They glanced at each other quite reluctantly. This was the very moment they tried so hard to avoid for so many years.

“Right,” Crowley answered. 

* * *

Crowley loved loopholes.

One, simple, easy loophole, and Adam gets to live and the world keeps on turning. The war was avoided, Aziraphale and Crowley were alive, and all of it was thanks to whoever decided to give a kid infinite powers and no connection to his Satanic Father. 

Aziraphale would call it equal parts love and rebellion, and Crowley agreed, but the power of loopholes is something any demon worth their salt _ has _ to appreciate. It was poetic justice, and even if he didn’t raise the kid like he did with Warlock, he was still immensely proud.

(Not nearly as proud as when Warlock had successfully used a loophole to get another hour of TV when he was supposed to only get the one, arguing that the commercials actually made the programs only a half-hour long. But still. Very good work, Adam.)

Crowley and Aziraphale had taken to celebrating by being as openly, unabashedly together as they pleased. And they took this opportunity and ran with it: holding hands in the park, quick pecks to the cheek, going to _ matinee _ shows instead of _ evening _ ones! They spend nearly every day of the waning summer walking through London, doing every single thing they can think of that they held back from. That is, when they’re not just lazily lounging in the flat or the bookshop, simply drinking in each other’s presence. 

One afternoon saw them doing a bit of both. They caught a band playing in the park that morning, then had done a light bit of grocery shopping, and were carrying their things back to Crowley’s place. The day had started out deceptively sunny and warm, an invitation to go out and enjoy it. 

Crowley should have known that his luck would turn soon enough. 

He only got a smattering of drops on his head as a warning before the sky opened up and it started pouring. The expression “raining buckets” didn’t even accurately convey just how strongly the rain was falling: it was more along the lines of “raining communal swimming pools.” The rain left no part of Crowley dry, practically attacking him with the sheer weight, speed, and amount of it. 

Aziraphale seemed to take a bit of delight in it, quickly miracling the paper grocery bags to be waterproof. The rain soaked his hair but beaded off his antique clothing like he was wearing a windbreaker instead of velvet and wool. He looked up at Crowley and, absolute bastard that he was, laughed at him and his waterlogged jacket and shoes. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “These were expensive, you know!” 

“Oh, absolutely, but I know for a fact that you didn’t spend a dime on them.”

“It took me awhile to get the snakeskin just right on my boots.”

Still, he reached out for Crowley with his free hand and pulled him into a kiss. It started out playful before turning into a little deeper, a little more relaxed. When Aziraphale finally let him go, and when he got his bearings back, Crowley noticed something. He couldn’t feel the rain anymore, like someone had lifted an umbrella above him. Or, and he let his eyes adjust to the ethereal plane as he looked up, like a milky-white wing was extended to cover him. It shone with a golden light, the feathers still soft despite the torrential rains battering down on them. A flood of memories came back, nearly sweeping him off his feet, much like the stream of water now surging down the slightly-inclined street they were on. 

“Thanks,” he said, still looking up, a little breathless. 

Aziraphale merely beamed at him. He then took his hand and pulled him into an alley, only letting go of him to open a steel-grey door with a flourish. He lead them through, the door miraculously exiting into Crowley’s flat. 

Once they were both inside the home, Aziraphale set down the groceries in the kitchen and then returned to knock on the door, presumably to disengage the miracle. Once all that was taken care of, he turned to Crowley.

"The price I pay for fashion," the demon sighed dramatically. "My shoes are now snakeskin buckets."

“Yes, I imagine it would take a _ real _ miracle to get those repaired,” he tutted, looking at his boots forlornly. With a wave of his hands, they were dried, buffed and polished. 

Aziraphale stepped closer, his hands then moved to the top of his lapels, smoothing down them slowly. His jacket, shirt and waistcoat all became dry and warm, and Crowley smelled just the faintest scent of fabric softener on the undone collar of his shirt. Aziraphale kissed him gently. 

“Better?” he murmured against his lips.

Crowley hummed. “Pants’re still wet.”

“Oh, of course, how could I forget those?” He hooked his fingers in his belt-loops, pulling him in closer for another kiss as his pants dried themselves, smoothing out as an afterthought as though they’ve been ironed. He let his hands fall down his hips and to his thighs.

Not a lot of contact, but Crowley couldn’t really find it in him to be disappointed. He was content with just this, for now. They had time, after all. 

Of course, right as he thought that, Aziraphale decided to pull away. There was a frown on his lips, even as his eyes sparkled with something warm, joyous, and mischievous.

“Your hair is still wet, dear,” he noted, stroking a hand through it. Crowley closed his eyes, relaxing immensely with the feeling. His hair remained soaked, however. 

“Would you mind if I took a more...traditional approach?” Aziraphale continued, and Crowley opened his eyes to see a bath towel in the angel’s free hand. 

“Pretty sure miracles are older than terrycloth, but by all means.”

"I meant traditional to humanity, 'when in Rome' and all that."

Aziraphale gently sat them both down onto the new couch, a soft, grey thing that you can positively _ sink _ into, with Crowley facing away from him. He guided Crowley to lean against him, then began to dry his hair. 

After a minute, though, both of them grew a touch restless. Aziraphale removed the towel, then gave a quiet little exhale when he presumably saw how damp his hair still was. 

“Sorry, dear, I really thought that would be…I don’t know, a little different.” 

“Don’t be, I did, too. ‘S fine, we have other things, though. Miracle mine and I’ll fix yours?” 

“Gladly.” Crowley felt the towel be replaced by Aziraphale’s hands (much preferred, in his opinion), and in a blink, his hair was dry again. He turned to face Aziraphale, gently brushing the hair curling against his forehead away. As he replaced his hair into its normal style, it dried and warmed itself. 

The angel himself sighed contentedly at the feeling.

“Thank you, that was _ wonderful _.” He took Crowley’s hand and squeezed in gratitude.

“Don’t mention it,” he said.

Aziraphale pulled him in closer, Crowley happily obliging. The two of them curled into each other, watching the downpour over London through the floor-to-ceiling window. As it dwindled into a light shower, as downpours usually do, Aziraphale miracled them twin cups of cocoa, Crowley miracled them some fluffy blankets. 

“We could probably still make _ The Tempest, _if we hurry,” Aziraphale offered, more as a token suggestion than anything.

“Think we just missed it, angel,” Crowley replied dryly, nodding towards the window. 

Aziraphale lightly smacked his arm.

“Well, I’m sure we can find a version of it on TV.” He took the remote on the coffee table. “Now, um. Hrm.”

Aziraphale stared at the buttons inquisitively, and then finally pressed the volume button. The TV lit up, because he expected it to, and a showing of _The_ _Tempest_ came up immediately. 

“Lucky me!” Aziraphale grinned up at the demon, then settled in against him. Crowley wrapped an arm around him. 

“Me too, angel,” he said. He laid his cheek against Aziraphale’s fluffy hair. “In so, so many ways.”

Suddenly, there was a hand steadying his cheek as Aziraphale turned his head to look him in the eyes.

“I daresay that I can relate,” he said, right before kissing him again. 

It wasn’t long or deep, but it warmed Crowley straight to the bone, in ways none of their miracles ever could. They soon found themselves lounging against each other, Crowley draped over Aziraphale like a throw, as they watched the production. It was probably for the best that they watched it at home, since neither bothered to quiet their idle conversation. And why would they? Outside, it was still raining steadily, if less forcefully. They had no place to be and nothing to do, and most importantly, no one to answer to. So they took a day off to enjoy the storm.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Okay I swear, the next one won't have Shakespeare, and will probs be from Aziraphale's POV. But it might take me a little longer than this one, school just started up and my schedule is a nightmare that I need to rearrange, so double nightmare.


End file.
